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Because of its brevity, it didn't make much of a marching song. It was more of a protest to close-order drill than anything else. John Philip Sousa would have been chagrined. Tired and sweaty, none of us had had a decent night's sleep, much less a shower, since leaving St.
Petersburg, Florida, five days before. With barracks bags swung over our shoulders, we trudged through the night toward distant lights of the barracks compound. All we wanted to do was climb into the sack and sleep for two days. After about a quarter of a mile, I guess the Sergeant wasn't happy with our attitude, and shouted. So he shouted again, "Everyone sing. Again we sang "Web Footed Friends," but with even less enthusiasm than the first time, so he gave up on us.
I guess he expected something stout-hearted, like "Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder," but we just weren't in the mood. Now I fast forward my story sixteen months to early November, In a small German town a few days after a Focke-Wulf fighter plane shot down our B, two German guards held five of my crew mates and me in a storage shed in a small town, for the night.
I awoke about midnight to the sound of singing. My buddies woke up too, and we scrambled to a small window overlooking the street to see what the music was all about.
We saw about a hundred German soldiers marching four abreast down the village street. In the darkness they were mere shadows, but their steel helmets and shouldered rifles reflected the half-moon light. And they sang it in dramatic three part harmony. Their lusty voices sent a chill down my spine. Richard Wagner would have been proud.